Spooks
by bleargh
Summary: What was that noise? (SLASH - S/X)
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: "Spooks" 1/?   
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis   
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com   
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly   
FEEDBACK: Hell yeah. Bring it on.   
RATING: PG   
SPOILERS: none   
ARCHIVING: My site, nummytreats - anywhere else, just ask.   
PAIRING: X/S   
NOTE: Short. Very short. Just a thought, really. And not beta'ed.   
  
  
  
"Spooks"   
  
  
  
I stare hard into thick darkness, holding my breath, all senses on edge. My fingers  
are cold, clutching the wool blanket shakily, but there's no way I can bring myself to  
tuck them inside the mock safety of my own body warmth. I feel like I'm six all over  
again, kept awake by creaks of the hardwood floor and angry footsteps somewhere  
else in the house. My youth's paralyzing cocktail of irrational and rational fear. It's a  
good thing I didn't know back then that the monsters under my bed might have been  
just as real as the family threat outside my door. I wasn't sure which was scarier.   
  
Having since grown up on hell itself, I am now perfectly aware that the noise I just  
heard might very well be those long forgotten monsters coming back to tug at my  
bedspread. I listen intently, filtering out usual house-noises, but hearing nothing else.  
I exhale slowly, trying to keep my body from moving at all, just in case. I close my  
eyes again, but this time they squeeze shut with a desperate attempt at making the  
uglies go away, whatever they might be tonight. Tomorrow. Think of tomorrow, when  
all of this will seem absurd, and the basement, bathed in dirty sunlight, will look like  
nothing more than an uninviting hovel.   
  
I fall asleep. Under the narrow window, hidden behind the faint shaft of grey  
moonlight, one of the monsters creaks his Zippo open again, compulsive, and wishes  
he could be the one tugging at the bedspread. Instead, he leaves, unnoticed. Maybe  
another night.   
  
  
  
----- 


	2. "Spooks" (2/?)

TITLE: "Spooks" (2/?)  
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis  
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com  
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly  
FEEDBACK: a food group?  
DISTRIBUTION: Nummytreats, my site. Anyone else, just ask first.  
DISCLAIMER: Joss, not me. No infringement intended.  
RATING: PG  
PAIRING: X/S  
NOTE: I didn't expect much for three paragraphs. I'm making it a full story now.  
Thanks for the wonderful feedback!  
SUMMARY: What was that noise?   
  
  
  
  
  
The razor blade scratches against his skin, digging sharply into his stubble through  
the too-white cream. It comes loudly to my ears, and interrupts my quiet monitoring  
of his heartbeat. Steady. The bathroom light glares at me as I hide, so close, in the  
security of the darkness outside the door. The lingering steam warms my face and I  
dare take a step closer, watching, mesmerized. It's a luxury I often indulge in. The  
boy is so bent on the notion that he's worth nothing, he makes it absurdly easy for  
me to foster a fixation.   
  
I lean against the door frame, and he stops mid-movement, razor against his throat.  
The sudden stench of fear floods my senses and I smirk listlessly, waiting. He doesn't  
move. Gulps once, and there's a little blood where the blade slices delicately into the  
skin. He doesn't feel it. Me, it drives me wild. I bite the inside of my cheek; gotta stay  
still. Just a little while longer.   
  
I can see the short hair rising in the back of his neck. His heartbeat is going at a  
hundred miles an hour. His breathing is panicked. I drink it all in, going crazy at the  
feeling, at how sharply I can taste him. Then I'm at his throat.   
  
He stares at me, eyes wide and unblinking, his breath coming in short panicked gasps  
as my hand crushes his windpipe, not too much, just enough. He can't move, trapped  
between the ceramic tiles of the wall and the very immediate threat of a recently  
dechipped nasty at his throat. Razor in hand, it doesn't occur to him to use it on me.  
Drunk on the ripples of fear coming off him, I lean in, demon doned, until our faces  
are a mere inch apart. He's trembling. I forgot how good this felt.   
  
I peer down at his throat, where blood mixes lazily with shaving cream. Mmm. With a  
thumb I wipe the pink stuff away in one sure swipe, and there it is, the little nick  
amidst dark stubble. A pearl of thick, rich blood lingers there, tantalizing. My hand  
tightens its grip under his jaw and he stifles a whimper. Brave boy. Scared witless. I  
bend down and put my lips to the tiny wound, tongue darting at the sweet nectar. So  
little of it. I can feel the thuds of his struggling heart in his jugular against my palm.  
His whole body shakes, expecting fangs to puncture skin at any moment, perhaps  
anticipating the release of death. But that would be too easy. No. Not yet.   
  
Instead I trail a sharp tooth against the cut, first just scratching, then slicing as the  
skin gives. A fine trail of blood comes pouring, but I catch it with a moist bottom lip  
and lick the wound close. There. Marked. For everyone to see. A crescent-shaped  
scar gently cupping the healing jab. I peer back up at his eyes, and he stares back,  
finding a thread of defiance through the jumbled mess of fright and pain. I hold his  
gaze for a moment and the next I'm gone. I don't hunt for three days, his taste rolling  
still on my tongue.   
  
  
  
TBC 


End file.
